


Mistaken

by heyshalina



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Confused Stiles, Derek Has Feelings, Derek Has Issues, Derek is a Failwolf, Gen, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s jaw twitched. “Oh God. No. Oh, no.”<br/>“Look, man.” Stiles winced as he tried to prop himself up on his elbow. After a couple of tries he gave up and fell back on the wood floor. “I’m not, I’m not dead, okay? Look, squishy. Pulse-y. Totally alive, see?”<br/>Derek’s head began to hang down toward his chest, both hands making their way above his ears as he fisted his hair. His jaw clenched, and his eyes hardened. “No.”<br/>“Don’t contradict me, I’m me!”</p><p>or</p><p>Derek thinks Stiles is dead. There are moments. Stiles wants to go home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistaken

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo.
> 
> This is my first attempt at Teen Wolf fanfiction, even though I've been admiring for a while now. I hope I did some justice.
> 
> The story makes a little more sense if you've watched past 3.08, Visionary. But you can read it without having watched it. Whatever floats your boat.
> 
> Thanks to my friend IAmPrettySure for looking this over for me!

The witch, or faery, or whatever the hell that bitch with magical powers and a horrible laugh was, had gone. Finally. Stiles hated that thing. Person. Yeah.

Too bad that Isaac was out for the count in the other room, and Scott was still on the run, chasing the thing’s partner...brother...mate…thing with Allison. It was also too bad that Derek was across the room, hacking his lungs out from some shit that the magic evil faery woman had blown in his face before using the power of her god-awful cackle to soar her through the air and out a window.

It was also too bad that Stiles was on the ground, bleeding badly. Yeah, that was bad too.

After seeing the thing blow evil faery dust in Derek’s furry face, Stiles had charged her, forgetting the unconscious Isaac that had been launched through a door and into a washing machine. Stiles hadn’t known that Derek even owned a washing machine. The witchy bitchy had just flicked Stiles aside like he was a dust particle that had inconveniently landed on her nose and started to tickle. Needless to say, Stiles had crashed into a pillar separating the kitchenette from the living room, and then landed on something pointy. And so he was laying there, a gash in his side seeping slowly onto the floor and a cut above his eyebrow drooping red liquid into his vision. He didn’t think his situation was absolutely critical yet, but he’d need a couple stitches. Nothing new.

If only he could work up the ability to _move_.

Derek had stopped sounding like he was going to cough up Canada, but was now completely silent, and Stiles wasn’t sure which was worse. Using an unfathomable amount of energy Stiles turned over onto his other side, taking pressure off of his wound and making him hiss in pain. Immediately the blood stopped pooling on the floor and starting trickling down his tummy. Some of it began to get in his belly button, and Stiles shuddered.

Whoops, found Derek.

On the floor.

Unconscious.

He was so screwed.

“Derek.” Stiles coughed out, closing his eyes for a minute while the room spun from his 180 turnaround. Isaac had yet to show up, so it seemed that Stiles had to rely on a sleeping sourwolf. Great. “Wake-wake up. Hey. Dude.” He took a break to breathe before resorting to whining. “Derek. Derrrreeekkk. Wake up. I need you here, buddy. Okay, we’re not really buddies, but Scott’s not here, so I need some help. So you should wake up. That’d be great.” He heaved a sigh out, his head clunking on the floor. “Yeah.”

Stiles let his eyes close halfway, and lost some time, hand pressed against his side and left eye completely obscured by the blood trickling down over it. After like, fifty years, Derek begin to stir, coughing again slightly as he propped himself up. He shook his head, groaning as he cradled his cranium between his knees, hands kneaded in his hair.

Stiles coughed. It sounded a little wet. “Derek.”

Derek didn’t reply. He didn’t even acknowledge him. Jerk.

Stiles bit his lip before trying again. “Derek!”

Nothing. Bitch.

Derek groaned again, lifting his head up and wiping his eyes. He coughed. “Scott?” His voice was gruff, hoarse, and heavy. He sounded confused as he looked about the apartment, continuously trying to clear something from his eyes. He cursed, rubbing his knuckles into his eye sockets. That couldn’t be healthy. “Isaac? St-Stiles?”

Stiles let out a moan of his own, but Derek didn’t even give him a clue that he heard it at all. Suddenly, but at the same time agonizingly slow, Derek’s head turned and his eyes came to rest on Stiles’s fallen position on the ground. His breath hitched, and Derek fell back onto his butt.

“Oh, God.”

“Derek.” Stiles choked out, fingers flickering weakly around his empty jeans pocket. “Derek, I can’t find my phone. I need you to call Scott.” Derek’s eyes hadn’t left Stiles’s side and the blood congealed there, mouth open and eyelids pried wide. He seemed nearly in a trance, and gave no response to Stiles’s talking. “Derek, I need you to call Scott, get help. Call Deaton, call my dad, the government, someone.”

Derek continued to stare at him. He started to shake his head slowly, Adam’s apple bobbing spasmodically as he clenched his jaw. He started moving forward, holding his ribs subconsciously as he made his way toward Stiles. Derek positioned himself on his knees over him, hands hovering but not touching. He dragged a shaky hand down his face. Stiles shifted painfully, looking up at the man.

“Derek, find–” Stiles heaved for breath. “Find my phone.”

Derek did no such thing. Instead he sunk back on his heels, staring at Stiles with a look of horror and complete and utter guilt etched in his eyes. It was a look that Stiles had seen before. Stiles knew that look. Knew it well, because he wore it the day his mother died, and every day since when he thought of her.

And then it hit him.

Stiles squinted at Derek, and took in his swaying, the remnants of the weird-ass powder still on his face, his unresponsive behavior, and his eyes, dilated so much that Stiles couldn’t see Derek’s hazel irises. She had drugged him. Derek was high and delusional. He was drugged. He was hallucinating.

He was so _screwed_.

“Derek, Derek, l-listen to me, you gotta snap outta it, we gotta get help.”

Derek’s jaw twitched. “Oh God. No. Oh, no.”

“Look, man.” Stiles winced as he tried to prop himself up on his elbow. After a couple of tries he gave up and fell back on the wood floor. “I’m not, I’m not _dead_ , okay? Look, squishy. Pulse-y. Totally alive, see?”

Derek’s head began to hang down toward his chest, both hands making their way above his ears as he fisted his hair. His jaw clenched, and his eyes hardened. “No.”

“Don’t contradict me, I’m _me_!”

“No, no.” Derek’s hand went up to his chin, rubbing over the stubble there. “No. I-I can fix this. I can fix this.”

Stiles’s face lit up. “Yeah, sourwolf, snap out of it! I’m fine, a little banged up, and well, bleeding, but we can fix it! G-Get Isaac.”

Derek didn’t respond, and Stiles’s heart began to sink a little again. “I can fix this,” Derek repeated. “It-it’s okay, it’s alright. It’s alright, Stiles, okay? I’m gonna fix this. We’ll patch you up, good as new, okay? I’ll fix it.”

“Right, Bob the Builder, get a move on.” Stiles moaned as a wave of pain washed over him. He dared to peek at the hand pressing against his wound. He immediately wished that he hadn’t.

Derek wiped at the blood pooling under Stiles’s eye as it seeped down from his eyebrow. “Okay.” Derek whispered. He looked down at Stiles’s side, and then began to try to lift his shirt off of the wound. Stiles kept his hand pressed against it tightly.

“No, Derek, stop.” Stiles hissed, choking on pain a bit as Derek began to tug at it harder, obviously confused as to why it wasn’t moving. “S-stop, please, Derek, _stop_.”

Derek growled and yanked at the shirt, knocking Stiles’s hand away and jarring his rips. Stiles cut off the scream that erupted from his mouth, letting it crumple into a choked sob instead. His heartbeat pulsed behind his eyes as he slapped his hand back over the wound, coughing weakly. Derek brought his hand back up, peering at it with googly, spaced out eyes. Warm, dark blood began to slide down his index finger, and Derek’s mouth opened slightly in something nearly akin to a tremble. Faster than Stiles could have ever been prepared for, Derek’s fingers were against his neck, the werewolf’s breath hot and shaky on his collarbone as Derek leaned down, taking Stiles’s pulse. Derek shook his head.

“No.”

The drug that the...thing...had poisoned him with was obviously messing with all of his senses, because Stiles was pretty damn sure he still had a pulse, even though Derek didn’t seem to think so. It was stringy and fast, granted, but come on, it was there. He kept retracting his hand and then placing it back against Stiles’s jugular, his touch gaining in force each time. Stiles was just about to screw it all and try to crawl away, side be damned, when Derek leaned back, his head in his hands.

“Oh my God.”

“I’m not freaking dead, you moron.” Stiles heaved, breath coming short. He was trembling, and his head hurt. “You...you _suck_.”

“God, Stiles. God, what’m I...what’m I gonna do? Scott, the Sheriff... _God_.”

“No funerals needed here, not yet, not now, wolfie.” Stiles reached out with his shaky arm and hit Derek on the leg with his knuckles. Guy didn’t even flinch. “Please don’t bury me, man, I love Isaac, I do, but I really don’t wanna feel his pain _literally_ , I’ll stick with sympathy and badly-timed jokes.”

“How am I...Stiles...what did I _do_?”

Stiles’s eyes widened. Derek’s shoulders were trembling softly. This guy was _messed up_. Oh, God. He thought – _fuck_ , he thought –

“Stiles, I’m sorry.” Derek’s hand shot forward, grabbing Stiles’s shirt. Stiles yelped in surprise, but Derek might as well have been deaf. And blind. And high. Check one for the sourwolf. Derek leaned over Stiles, his hands fisted in his overshirt, until his forehead was basically touching his sternum. Stiles had never felt more awkward and completely horrified at the same time in his life. “I’m so sorry. I-I must have lost control, I tried so hard, I swore…I swore that I wouldn’t h-hurt you, b-but…”

“You didn’t, man.” Stiles said softly, having to clear his throat to speak. “Derek, it-it’s okay, you didn’t hurt me.”

Derek shifted, flinched when his face touched the blood on Stiles’s shirt. Beyond Derek, Stiles could barely see anything anymore, the apartment was so dark. Even the moon was obscured at his angle. Derek touched the blood again, holding it up to his face. Derek paled even more than he had before. He was silent for awhile, just staring at it.

“No.” He rasped. “It-it’s black, why is it black, no, _no_ , I couldn’t have.”

“Couldn’t have _what_?” Stiles groaned. “It-it’s just blood, man. I just need a patch-up.”

Derek wasn’t convinced. As per usual. “I can’t...I can’t believe I...he _said_ that you weren’t, and I didn’t listen! God, why, I can’t, I can’t do this a second time, I can’t, not again.”

What the actual fuck.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, I’m so sorry I did this to you. I-I don’t even know your real _name_ , goddamnit, it isn’t even your _name_!”

Stiles was suddenly aware that blood wasn’t the only moisture on his shirt, but before he could even fathom the idea that Derek Freaking Hale was _crying_ , Derek threw his head back, magic sideburns grown in and fangs bared, red eyes nearly covered by black as he howled and roared, voice cracking and hollow.

Stiles had been through a lot of shit, but that topped the list on the scary factor. That was freaking _terrifying._

Derek had stopped and – whoa, _whoa-ho_ – picked him up, propping him against him and he growled and huffed. Stiles used his hand to shakily keep himself upright, but couldn’t lessen Derek’s grip on him no matter how much he pulled and pried.

“Where are you, Peter?” Derek heaved, and his breath was uncomfortably hot. “Come take him away. You always know where to take them, the people I kill. Where are you now?”

Stiles wiggled and wormed for awhile longer, losing time in short periods before going at it again, but it was no use. After some time Derek began absentmindedly rocking back and forth, his hand placed firmly between Stiles’s shoulderblades. Stiles gazed at Derek, whose nose was buried in Stiles’s shoulder, eyes taking a on glassy look in fatigue. Stiles let his head sink down onto Derek’s shoulder, his forehead meeting the space between the werewolf’s shoulder and neck. He let himself drift, his eyes closing, and a warm feeling began to set over him. Derek coughed out a weird sound, and then put his hand on the back of Stiles’s head for a moment before letting it go back to its position on his back. But not before Derek had turned his head, hand holding Stiles’s hair in a weak grip, and planted a kiss on Stiles’s bloody temple.

Stiles’s eyes flashed open.

Right at that moment, a dizzy and dust and detergent-covered Isaac came stumbling out of the laundry room, holding his head with one hand. He froze in the doorway, eyes widening as he took in the scene of a shaking Derek holding an awake (albeit very sleepy) and uncomfortable Stiles against him. He didn’t know whether to smile or run away. He probably would have laughed if the situation wasn’t actually so terrifying.

Stiles saw him, and his face lit up, eyebrows high as he waved wildly with his one free hand. “Call Scott.” He rasped urgently. Isaac blinked, pulling out his phone and pressing Scott’s speed dial without looking. He raised his eyebrow in questioning, but Stiles just shook his head.

“This,” He exclaimed, gesturing exaggeratingly to him, Derek, and their position with his one arm. “Never happened. We don’t need to talk about this. Never. Never ever.”

Isaac stared at him for a moment before nodding. “Uh, sure. We’ll, uh…” He pulled his lips up as he held his phone to his ear. “Scott, dude, I woke up and Stiles and Derek were cuddling, send help.”

“ _Dude_!”

* * *

 No one was completely sure what to do once Isaac hung up on Scott. The poor lanky kid was holding his head like it was going to break any second, and while Stiles was concerned for him and his probable concussion, he was a little more concerned about the delusional werewolf clinging to him that seemed ready to say two words at his funeral and dump him in the ground. Isaac stumbled over to Derek and Stiles’s position on the floor, tripping several times and nearly toppling over the couch on the way.

“Jesus, Stiles,” he said, prying Derek’s arm off a bit so that he could see the gash in Stiles’s side. “I think I can see your fucking rib.”

“My rib says ‘hi’,” Stiles grunted. “Although it’s sort of in a committed relationship with my insides right now, so if you could patch that up, that’d be marvelous.”

“He’s kinda…” Isaac poked Derek’s shoulder and got no response. “In the way.”

“So get him off of me!” Stiles hissed.

Derek ground his teeth and looked up at Isaac, who took a step back upon seeing his alpha’s dilated eyes and pale face. Derek gulped. “Isaac.” Isaac backed away a little more, eyes widening with newfound fear and concern. “Were–were you here? Did you see it? Did you see?”

“See what?” Isaac voice was hoarse.

“What I _did_!” Derek shouted, his vein sticking out of his neck. He gripped Stiles’s shoulders tighter with his beefy fists. “Look what I did! I tried...and now...what do I _do_?”

Isaac blinked. “What the fuck is he on?”

“That bitch sprayed some sharing and caring on him, I think she broke him.” Stiles replied, craning his neck backward before realizing what a bad idea that was, wincing in pain.

“No shit.”

“Scott’s never going…” Derek swallowed again, eyebrows furrowed so much they were nearly over his eyes. “He’s never going to forgive me.”

“I really don’t think there’ll be a problem.” Isaac quipped.

“I fucking _killed his best friend_!” Derek shouted, voice breaking. “I killed him. He’s _dead_. We-we have to leave, we have to go, we can’t stay here, Peter hasn’t come, and the–the Sheriff will kill us, Argent will hunt us down, and he’ll have a reason. Isaac, c-come with me. Isaac, will you come with me?”

Isaac looked down at Stiles, who nodded with his whole body. Isaac shifted his eyes. “Uh, yeah, Derek. Of course, you-you know I will.”

Derek nodded, and then looked at the floor. “Thanks.”

“Uh, yeah, no prob.” Isaac knelt down beside them, on the side that showed most of Stiles’s injured body. He reached over to the coffee table and grabbed a half-full cup of water (which, miraculously, was the only thing in the damn apartment that _hadn’t_ fallen over), ripping off a part of his shirt that wasn’t filthy or covered in laundry detergent. He dabbed the piece of fabric in the water, and then scooted forward, nearly against Derek’s back, gently trying to wipe the blood off of Stiles’s face and out of his eye. His hand was still pressed against the wound in his side, and he wasn’t quite ready to expose that fully just yet. They sat there like that for awhile, Isaac wiping away blood and occasionally patting Derek’s shoulder awkwardly in sympathy. Derek had loosened his grip somewhat, but had attached his chin to his chest and was staring intensely at the floor, his jaw clenched in every sense of the word.

“Yeah,” Isaac decided, breaking the silence. “This is weird.”

Scott finally decided to show up to the party, entering the apartment through the front door and casually announcing that Allison had killed the druid thing, and that there might have maybe definitely had been hugs afterward. That’s when he stopped and really looked at his three friends on the floor.

Scott froze. “What the hell?”

“ _Exactly_.” Stiles exclaimed, shifting uncomfortably.

“The witch gave him some weird shit,” Isaac explained. “He’s hallucinating. He sort of thinks that he...that, uh, he killed Stiles, and that Stiles is dead, and that he’s holding a dead Stiles.”

“Who is actually _alive_ , thank you.” Stiles bit.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked, making his way over slowly.

“There’s a dubstep concert going on in my head, but I’ll live.” Isaac said. “Stiles got banged up a little bit, he needs a couple stitches. We’ll have to call Deaton, I can’t really put a bandage on his side to get him to the vet office when Derek’s all moody like this.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Derek murmured under his breath. “ _Fuck_. Shit, God, shit.”

“Hey, Derek.” Isaac said softly. “Scott’s here now, it’s gonna be okay.”

Derek’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Scott?” His voice was uncharacteristically small.

“Yeah, Derek.” Scott waved a jerky little wave, a tight lipped smile forced onto his face, eyes constantly flickering between Derek and Stiles’s bloody side.

Derek jerked backwards a bit, whole body tensing. He looked from Scott to Stiles (who had shouted in pain when Derek decided to move for the first time in forever) back to Scott, fear on his face.

“Scott, I–I swear, I didn’t know this would happen. It just, it, sometimes it doesn’t _work_ , he just...and I...I’m so sorry.”

Scott blinked in confusion, because he was about 79% sure that there were legitimate _tears_ in Derek’s eyes. He looked helplessly at Stiles and Isaac. “What do we do?”

“I’m sorry, Scott. I’m _sorry_.”

Isaac shrugged. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Okay, here’s the plan.” Stiles piped up. “First, we get a dog crate, you know, like the big ones from Petco. And then we get some of Derek’s favorite food and some chains, so that we can _get him the hell off of me_ and then he’ll be so lured in by the smell of–”

Scott turned around, grabbing a fallen clock from the ground, and swung his arm, hitting Derek in the side of the head. Derek immediately slumped to the ground, limp arm catching Stiles across the face as he fell. Scott stepped forward and picked him up, grunting under his weight and tossing him on the couch. He turned around. “You good?”

Stiles gaped up at him. “Wha–What’d’ya do _that_ for?”

“Well, he stopped crying.” Isaac pulled a face. “That’s an improvement. It was really freaking me out. Totally unnatural.”

“I didn’t really see another way.” Scott shrugged. “Plus, your plan was taking too long, and I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“Well, okay.” Stiles pursed his lips together. “Yeah. Okay. That works, sure.”

Then he fell back onto the floor in a heap, causing Scott and Isaac to jump forward, Scott with his arms under Stiles’s back and knees and Isaac with a dirty hand towel from the kitchen to press against his side. He, too, was deposited on a couch, although Scott stayed with him, and he got the loveseat.

Derek woke up thirty minutes later, in which during that time Scott and Isaac had more or less put the apartment back together, and Deaton had come over to patch up Stiles and check Derek out. The fact that he hadn’t stirred through Stiles’s shouts when Deaton had given him stitches with only some ibuprofen to dull the pain was a miracle in itself. It had nearly sent Isaac to his own happy place in unconsciousness.

Stiles got some juice and a few cookies for his efforts, even though Deaton said it was for the blood loss. Stiles felt like he deserved to be rewarded.

“It looks like whatever she gave him was only temporary.” The vet stated. “It should be almost through his system. It seems as though she made him breathe in some sort of concentrated powder made from the hallucinogenic properties of wolfsbane.”

“I could’a told you that!” Stiles huffed, hands rubbing his side gently. Scott furrowed his eyebrows, set on taking Stiles to his mom after this was all over. Deaton gave him a look, but continued anyway.

“He should wake up in a little bit. See if he has a concussion. If he does, tell me, and I’ll get you some more medicine. Isaac, don’t give him any of yours, you have to finish it, no cheats. Even werewolves can bust their heads. Stiles, don’t hurt yourself again in the next week, okay? Eat some food.”

“Aye aye, chief!” Stiles mock saluted, and Deaton sighed.

“Bye doc, thanks.” Scott showed him out, and then the three boys sat in silence for a couple minutes, waiting for Derek to wake up.

When he did, he wasn’t tripping anymore. He was back to his normal, grumpy, sourwolfy self. Hurray...

“We cuddled.” It wasn’t so much of a question as a stated disbelief.

“It was really sweet.” Isaac remarked, leaning back in his chair. “I should have taken a picture.”

“Shut up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Aw, they’re adorable.” Scott smirked.

“I thought you were dead?” Derek asked Stiles. “What did I say?”

“Oh, not much, you know.” Stiles shrugged. “You got all moody and emotional, thought you had killed me, was convinced I had black ooze coming out of me, confessed your undying love, things like that.”

Derek paled, a red blush creeping up from under his collar. “I did what?”

“Dude, just kidding, calm yourself.” Stiles laughed. “But you did think that you killed me. You were planning your escape from Beacon Hills after my funeral and everything, it was pretty depressing. Wouldn’t listen to anything I said.”

“That’s because I just naturally tune you out.” Derek replied.

“What?” Stiles said, holding a cupped hand to his ear. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you over the echoes of your girly apologies.”

“I swear to God, Stiles–”

“Oh, that too, you even cried over how that isn’t even my real name. Seemed pretty broken up about it.”

Derek ground his teeth, his blush reaching farther up his neck. Isaac furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, your name isn’t even Stiles?”

Scott and Stiles burst out laughing, and Derek even cracked a smile. Isaac smirked. “Alright, alright, Whoever-you-are, try not to die on Derek anymore, okay? Next time he might kiss you!”

“Yeah,” Stiles’s smile fell off of his face, but the others didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, right. Sure. Don’t want that.”

The rest of them continued laughing, but Stiles stared at the floor, letting the muscles in his jaw work.

Don’t want that.


End file.
